Mira

Phantom: Ha ha. Funny.

I let out a small laugh. The idea that he thinks I am funny makes my heart pound in my chest.

Phantom: Please tell me where you are.

Me: So polite all of a sudden! And some people say old dogs can't learn new tricks.

Great job, Mira! Remind him about your age difference. He is seven years older than you, after all. That might be enough to put him off.

Phantom: I'm not that old. I can prove it if you'd like.

Is that a naughty innuendo, or am I imagining things? My body suddenly burns with desire.

It is as though Elliot has changed personalities, and I do not understand any of it. He replies before I recover from my shock.

Phantom: That was highly inappropriate.

Me: I think your phone has been hacked.

Phantom: Not my phone, but my brain might have been. I tend to do stupid things when I'm with you.

I burst out laughing as I read those words. His admission gives me far too much pleasure. In light of his honesty, I decide to throw him a bone.

Me: I'm in line for Sinister Manor.

Phantom: The line?

Me: Allow me to enlighten you. A line is where people wait when they can't afford one of those priority passes your company sells for the price of a kidney.

One glance at the empty waiting area for holders of the illustrious pass tells me the park's other guests agree.

Phantom: If anyone offers you a kidney for two hundred dollars, run.

I put my phone in my bag, chuckling. A very nice couple waiting ahead of me strikes up a conversation. They came from Kansas for their honeymoon. I ask them a few questions, including what they like best and least about Wondervale, and scribble on my tiny notepad as they answer.

"Hey! You can't cut the line!" someone behind me protests.

I turn to find Elliot making his way through the line without paying any attention to the unhappy guests.

How did he get here so quickly?

He stops beside me without being even slightly out of breath.

"Um... What are you doing here?"

He looks ridiculous in his suit and Gucci loafers among all these casually dressed vacationers.

"You weren't at the warehouse."

"I took the day off."

"That's what Tessa told me."

"Why were you looking for me?"

I try to sound indifferent, but fail miserably. Elliot gives me a small, smug smile.

The man behind us taps him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, you can't cut the line. We've already been waiting forty minutes."

"I own the place," Elliot shoots back, glaring at him.

"Sure you do. And I'm Santa Claus," the stranger says, tugging on his white beard.

"Google the name Elliot Vale. I'll wait," he says, tapping his foot impatiently.

Something in Elliot's voice compels everyone to obey him. It is fascinating to watch this man check his phone simply because Elliot ordered him to.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Vale," he finally says, pale. "I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just that we don't appreciate people cutting in line."

"I'm sure that's true of everyone who can't afford a priority pass," he snaps dryly.

Unbelievable.

"You shouldn't speak to guests that way," I say before turning my back on him.

No wonder everyone avoids him. He has the emotional maturity of a robot and the charm of rush-hour traffic.

The couple from Kansas resumes our conversation, and I focus on them again. Behind me, Elliot continues tapping his loafer against the ground. He can throw his tantrum. I do not care.

After a while, I glance over my shoulder. His eyes are fixed on me.

"Yes?"

"Are you ever going to explain why we're waiting in line when we could go ahead of everyone?"

"I'm experiencing the park from a user's perspective so I can figure out what would appeal to these customers you're trying to please."

"How noble of you," he replies, wrinkling his nose.

I would swear Elliot is making a tremendous effort not to say something insulting this time.

"If my method bothers you that much, go back to your fancy office. No one asked you to come. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I..." he begins, then hesitates. "I don't know."

I have no idea what is going on inside his head, but he shuts up. We wait in silence, both lost in thought.

Why did he really come to join me, and why am I so delighted to see him waiting in a line with me when he hates it?

After a good ten minutes, we finally reach the front of the line. Sinister Manor is one of our classic attractions, inspired by a haunted castle somewhere in England that appears in one of Vale Company's films. Each crescent-shaped car contains a black bench with room for three passengers.

A man dressed in an old-fashioned three-piece suit calls out to us.

"How many?"

"One," I answer at the same time Elliot says,

"Two."

"Hmm, please hurry," the employee says awkwardly. "The car is about to leave."

I rush toward the small black seat. My heart races when Elliot slides in beside me, then lowers the safety bar, trapping us together for the duration of the ride.

"Why won't you leave me alone?"

"I wish I knew."

Elliot says it so quietly that I wonder whether I imagined it. Either way, I smile at the thought that he wants to spend more time with me, even if he does not know why.

My companion stretches out his legs to get comfortable. His muscular thigh brushes mine, and I hold my breath. I am not sure what frightens me more: the fact that we are entering gloomy darkness or the wave of heat that washes over me at this man's proximity.

The second one, definitely. I shift all the way to the edge of the bench.

"If you keep that up, you're going to fall out," he says, raising his voice over the haunted house's sound effects.

"I thought you didn't care?"

"Hmm. Maybe I do after all."

That warms my heart. The car carries us into a corridor filled with wicked laughter and ghostly moans. Door locks rattle as doors fly open with a bang.

Elliot surveys our surroundings while we move slowly through the different rooms. His eyes widen at the sight of the attic, where a gothic bride chants over a coffin.

"This is creepier than I remember."

"Oooh, are you scared? Want me to hold your hand?"

He rolls his eyes. It is so rare to see that expression on his face that I start laughing. The corner of his mouth twitches again. He is fighting a smile. In my head, I do a little victory dance.

"When was the last time you rode this?" I ask.

His hands tighten around the metal bar in front of us.

"When I was ten."

"Ten? That was forever ago!"

"Let's not exaggerate. I'm not some ancient geezer..."

The remark makes me laugh so hard that my entire body shakes.

"Sorry."

"Nico cried every time. His reaction always made my mother laugh, so we forced him to ride it with us over and over."

That catches me by surprise. I have never heard him mention his mother.

"It was sweet of you to do that for her."

"I don't think Nico would agree."

"What was your mother's favorite ride?"

"She loved them all."

His smile does not reach his eyes. I wrap my hand around his clenched fist. I do not know what I thought the gesture would accomplish... Calm him? Comfort him? What a ridiculous idea! He does not need it. When I pull my hand away, Elliot catches it and holds it captive against the bar. The brush of his thumb over my knuckles sends a spark shooting up my arm.

When I let out a small gasp of surprise, he immediately retreats and releases me.

Our car continues its slow descent into the macabre cemetery. I am captivated by the talking statues and the ghouls flying around us. Suddenly, a ghost springs out of a grave. Elliot jumps and slams into the safety bar, which creaks under his weight but stays in place.

I burst out laughing and cannot hold back the tears rising to my eyes.

"Oh my God! Riding this with you was worth it for that reaction alone!"

His gaze is lit by the ghostly figures projected above us.

"It's not nice to laugh."

That is when a gigantic spider drops onto the front of our car. Elliot jerks back.

"Oh, fuck!" he blurts, petrified.

I burst out laughing again. I have never heard him swear before. He probably avoids it so he will not reveal anything about his state of mind.

Even though his lips are pressed together, his eyes remain bright.

"You should have seen your face! It was incredible. I laughed so hard I think I peed a little."

"Charming as always, Mira."

The way he says it makes me grin like an idiot.

"I've never seen a grown man react like that on a children's ride," I say, discreetly dabbing at the corners of my eyes.

"You're not as nice as everyone thinks you are. It takes a truly awful person to mock a man for being scared."

"Do you think they caught you at the right moment in the ride photo? I'd buy it in a heartbeat, even if it's outrageously expensive."

I feel as though my face might split in two from smiling so hard. Elliot stares at me for a few seconds, expressionless, before looking straight ahead again.

The ride ends far too quickly. Our car approaches the exit, and the bar rises to release us. Once we are on the platform, Elliot holds out his hand.

I hesitate for a moment. Am I really seeing what I think I am? He rolls his eyes again, then grabs my arm and pulls me out of the vehicle before it starts moving again. I expect him to let me go, but his grip remains firm as we enter the store selling souvenirs from the film. He is already heading for the exit when I exclaim,

"Wait!"

He releases my hand, and I approach the photo counter, where the clerk helps me find the picture I am looking for.

When he displays the image, then zooms in on Elliot's grimace, I lose it. I laugh so hard my voice turns hoarse.

"Delete it," Elliot orders.

I feel his warmth against my back.

"No!" I protest. "Please let me buy it first."

I gaze longingly at the photo. In it, I am the picture of grace, while Elliot is pale, his eyes bulging. The strangest part is his arm pressed across my stomach as though he were protecting me. It is a beautiful thought, and I want to keep this picture so I never forget the memory.

As I hurry to pull my wallet from my purse and count out the money, Elliot reaches over my shoulder and hands the employee a bill. The man then prints the picture and packages it for me.

I turn to study Elliot's unreadable face.

"Why did you pay?"

"Because I wanted to."

His curt answer is meant to discourage further questions, but I see right through him. I think Elliot likes me more than he wants to admit.